


Silver Linings

by becominghistoric



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (not too graphic), Blood, Canon Era, M/M, also grantaire angst, also how do you do good titles help, but very minor considering it's montparnasse, some violence, when isn't there grantaire angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 21:39:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/816334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becominghistoric/pseuds/becominghistoric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Sometimes Jehan likes to walk the streets of Paris alone at night.)</p><p>He is perfectly capable of holding his own in a fist fight, but he can feel cool metal against his throat, so remains still instead of testing his chances against the blade....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver Linings

Jehan glares at the clouds which have marred the sky all day. When they are fine, wispy brush strokes, or great, billowing breaths of the gods, then he is happy to watch them. He loves to write about the tinge of pink at the edge of snow clouds, like the soft underbelly of a collared dove, or the inky purple stain of storm clouds. Today, however, he is not graced by poetic clouds. Simply flat, grey ones, which release a constant, unenthusiastic patter of rain. No warm, swollen droplets or vicious lashings for him to scribble dramatic verses about.

Normally Jehan can find poetry in anything; even this tedious attempt at poor weather would usually provide him with some inspiration, had it not been on the day that a full moon was due to rise. He loves to wander through quiet back streets when the moon is high and bright, but he is sure that these clouds will not recede in time for his walk.

It is always when he feels most peaceful; walking in the silver night, alone save for a few bleary-eyed drunkards, who are far too absorbed by alcohol and their own troubles to so much as look at him. If, on occasion, he happens upon one that is more familiar than the others, a tangle of black curls and large, sad eyes, he does not say anything to his friends the next day. He simply takes the artist’s hands in his and crouches by his side, waiting until he emerges from his stupor and allows himself to be led home.

Jehan understands what it is to love too much, to be absorbed by a soul-swallowing devotion to something, or someone. He recognises that Grantaire is paralysed by his propensity for caring too deeply, so says nothing as he watches his friend attempt to drown that part of himself with alcohol. Instead he gives him poems. Pieces of paper that he lets flutter into Grantaire’s lap, like small wings of hope. In return he will receive small pieces of art. Witty observations of the way their friends act around each other, detailed flowers, or beautiful scenes of Jehan’s favourite parts of Paris, all slipped into his hand with a shy smile. No spoken words could say as much as these little gifts; Jehan operates in acts of kindness, and so does Grantaire, if only people allow themselves to see that side of him.

Jehan sighs and collects his papers together. He has been occupied all day and has not yet eaten, so for now he puts aside thoughts of dismal weather and melancholy friends, and prepares himself a meal.

***

Surprisingly, the mass of clouds has thinned somewhat by midnight. It is not as clear a night as he had hoped for, but the rain has stopped at least, so he makes his way out into the dark. His streets of preference are even quieter than usual, most drunks preferring warm doorways to slump in on nights like tonight. The pavements glisten in what little moonlight does filter though the clouds, and Jehan feels calm. Everything is otherworldly on such nights, and all impossibilities dwindle into something reachable.

A rather lovely sonnet is beginning to take shape in his mind and he is content. He knows these streets so well that he only half pays attention to where he is strolling, looking instead at the silhouette of the rooftops against the sky. He is, therefore, taken completely by surprise when a strong hand takes hold of arm, and he is spun, _almost like a dance_ he thinks, in a ridiculous moment of confusion, and suddenly finds himself with his back pressed uncomfortably against the chest of a stranger. He is perfectly capable of holding his own in a fist fight, but he can feel cool metal against his throat, so remains still instead of testing his chances against the blade.

His attacker is breathing more rapidly than he is, and each exhalation tickles his ear. The danger has brought a strange clarity to his mind, and he thinks fondly of his friends, refusing to waste what he suspects will be his last few moments by allowing fear to take hold. The blade is pressed hard against his neck, stinging where it has begun to cut into the skin. The seconds pass into minutes, and he begins to wonder if he’s expected to scream or struggle before his assailant carries out his act, when the grip on him loosens and the knife moves away.

At first Jehan is too shocked to move, but eventually he stumbles forward a few places, then turns to see the other man still stood frozen on the spot. He is wearing a top hat, and the knuckles of his right hand are white, from gripping the knife so hard. He shows no sign of lunging forward or recommencing his attack, so Jehan looks at his face properly. His breath catches in his throat. Jehan knows that he shall soon write poems about cheekbones, sharp as the blade in his hand, and lips like ripening fruit. He has the appearance of someone who is usually filled with an easy, youthful confidence, but tonight his eyes are wide, almost fearful, filled with something beyond his comprehension. He clearly doesn’t know why Jehan isn’t currently a corpse staining the pavement red, or why he has dropped his knife and is now walking towards the other man with a strange urgency.

Jehan is once again unable to move, completely captivated by the absurdity of the situation. The stranger gently brushes away Jehan’s hair from where it has fallen over the thin cut on his neck, regarding it with confusion. Suddenly, he leans forward, and presses a gentle kiss to it, pulling away with lips an even deeper shade of red. Jehan shudders, but it is not from fear.

Then the man is picking up his knife again, but this time wiping it on the well-tailored, although threadbare, coat he wears and hiding it in a pocket in the lining. He regards Jehan once more, carefully pressing a hand to his cheek. “Why?” whispers Jehan.

“I don’t know,” comes the honest reply, and then, after a pause, “my name is Montparnasse.”

Before Jehan can even consider providing his own name, Montparnasse is gone, retreating back into the shadows. Jehan runs home, feeling like wind and fire, and so many other things he cannot yet voice. He will try, though.

When the dawn breaks he is still at his desk, frantically scrawling verse after verse about a youth with the most perplexing eyes. Jehan wants to unravel Montparnasse, and see the secrets hidden in his bones. He wants to ask why and receive a satisfying answer. He wants to understand why he has been taken in by someone whose first intention was to mercilessly kill him.

But, for the moment, he shall satisfy himself with looking out for a familiar top hat, as he walks the streets of Paris.

**Author's Note:**

> Hmm, I might make this into a series, we'll see.
> 
> Writing Tumblr [here](http://becominghistoric.tumblr.com/). As ever, it's nice to hear from you all, so pop over and say hi :)


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